Melting Pot

So many peoples in
the land of the free,
blinded to the “dream,”
it’s been gouged from their skulls
by generations
of too soft, stubby-fingered hands,

“C’mon, it’s a revival!”

A legacy of othering,
shimmers on our slicked rivers,
hanging lifeless from the trees,
dusting lash and breath with ash,
smeared across cheeks,
and forced down throats.
this bitter lumped gumbo
no gag can expel

“Everybody out of the pot . . .”

and if you’re in,
“. . . as long as your under
these skies,
being stirred with THIS spoon . . .”

don’t bother
looking up.

you’ll do as (they) say,
Grateful.
for the warm-handed pat down,
or else . . .

have the breath crushed
from your moth-winged lungs
or a boot to your cloud-filled head,
hidden there in the closet
maybe something in a . . .
Bullet for your late night candy cravings,
your naked bones strung along a fence,
number on your wrist . . .
as you wait in a very long line
for the only bathroom for
YOUR kind

What’s that you smell, simmering on the stove?

(it’s mother’s last breath now,)
“Shh! She’s fine, just having a rest.”